


equal debt

by mnemememory



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, Post episode 115, background relationships!!, one hundred years later..., vax is in this but he's still dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 13:30:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18692467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemememory/pseuds/mnemememory
Summary: The Lady speaks to birds.(or; outsider pov, whitestone, one hundred years after episode 115).





	equal debt

 

The Lady speaks to birds.

Cynthia isn’t supposed to go so far out into the forest, but she likes the solitude. There are three younger brothers cluttering up the walls of her house, and its rare minute that she can spend in solitude with her tools. They keep barrelling into her table and breaking her glass picks; it had taken her mother yelling at them the last time to keep them in line, and even then, only for a good half hour.

So Cynthia leaves her house on the edges of Whitestone to retreat to the stillness that settles between the trees. She doesn’t dare go too far – she’s been on the receiving end of one too many lectures about the monsters that roam in from the mountains – but she goes in far enough to leave the bustle of the city behind. Cynthia loves Whitestone with all of her heart, but it is a love tempered with exhaustion.

The first time Cynthia sees the lady is a cold day, with winter blowing in from the north and chilling the ground to frost. Cynthia’s breath mists in the air, and even having grown up in Whitestone, she has a few extra layers to pad out her clothing. Her books are in a bag settled at her hip – study books, books written by the long-dead saviour of Whitestone. Cynthia sucks in the words like a dry sponge, checking and re-checking her designs against the typed lettering. Every day, she makes her way across town to gaze at the giant clock settled out the front of the castle, beautiful and intricate and impossible.

Cynthia will do that. Whitestone is known for its tinkerers, for its fine work, and Cynthia will be the best.

She does not feel her best that day. Her joints are locking, lungs wheezing. She’s gone further than she ever has before; she’s _furious_.

“I can’t believe,” she puffs to herself, angry tears blinding her footsteps. “How _could_ they, I can’t –”

Cynthia is clutching to her chest the broken remains of the first watch she had ever built. It had taken pride of place on her desk top, the rhythmic _tick-tick-ticking_ its own kind of soothing. She had never thought it beautiful (if anything, it was a crude thing, done with a child’s crude hands), but it had _worked_.

She stumbles forward, and then to a stop. Cynthia leans her forehead against and tree and shudders, the naked metal scraping chilly against her fingers. She can’t quite seem to unclench her hands. Ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous.

It takes a while, but Cynthia begins to grow aware of her surroundings. The sound of birdcall – a voice, high and sweet. Cynthia hesitates, curiosity warring with her burning rage.

A Lady sits on a bench. It is fashioned roughly, weathered smooth over the years. Cynthia peers through the foliage and stares – there are birds of every colour flocked at her feet, black and blue and green jewelled-hues winking in the morning sun. The Lady has her back turned to Cynthia, but she is beautiful – black feathers poking out starkly from her white braid, which curls all the way down her back. Her clothing is expensive and practical, creamy leather and soft fabrics falling from her bony shoulders and down across the grass. An old, scarred bear is on the ground in front of her, fur silvered all the way across his body.

The Lady is talking.

“– and I swear, darling, that I’ve never laughed so much. Not even when Keyleth – do you remember the time that Keyleth got _so drunk_ that she couldn’t walk properly, and still managed to get arrested? This was years ago, I think, just when we were starting out. In any case, poor Pike was so embarrassed this time. Scanlan couldn’t stop laughing, the rat, but Trinket growled at him – _yes_ , buddy, you were _really good –”_

The bear gives a low, tired grumble, and the Lady leans down to give him a peck on the nose. He settles back, content to let the birds continue to hop around on his fur.

There is one bird in particular that the Lady appears to be talking to. It is a large, black raven – Whitestone is full of ravens, so Cynthia has grown up counting the black feathers that litter the streets. She recognises the curve of the beak, the intelligence of its eyes, but not its size. It is the biggest raven she has ever seen.

It is perched up fearlessly against the bear’s flank, talons digging gently into the soft fur. Every so often it lets out a _caw_ in-between the Lady’s words, like it’s actually replying.

Cynthia is caught by the sight. She can’t look away, breath held frozen in her lungs – it isn’t until the raven begins to shift restlessly and the Lady lets out a quiet laugh that she feels her limbs relax, taunt strings cut.

 The Lady reaches forward to stroke its head.

“I know, I know,” she says. “It’s time for you to go and see her. Give Keyleth my love.”

The raven gives another _caw_ , and then flies off. The Lady reaches down to pat the bear firmly on its flank.

“Alright, buddy. Time to get up and go home. This cold can’t be good for your bones.”

The bear lets out a gruff whine and rolls to his feet. Now that Cynthia sees him standing, he is bigger than she would have thought possible – _big_ , and old. Very old. He towers above the Lady, who lets out a long sigh and leans against his neck.

Cynthia is abruptly consumed with the thought that _maybe she shouldn’t be watching this_.

She begins to back away from the scene, but as she tries to slink away the bear gives a short and tosses his head in Cynthia’s direction. The Lady laughs.

“Yes, buddy, I know.”

Cynthia freezes.

“You can come on out now,” the Lady says. Now that she’s turned to face Cynthia, her face shows lines that Cynthia would never have drawn on such a face. It is a stark, striking beauty, bleached of almost all colour. Her smile is wry.

Cynthia looks at the bear. If she tries to run, he would probably catch her. He is very old, though, and Cynthia is very good at not getting caught. Maybe if she –

“And don’t even try to think of getting away,” the Lady says, amusement plain. “I’m not going to do anything to you, child. I just want to talk.”

Cynthia doesn’t really have a lot of options right now. Her family isn’t rich. They’re not bad off, but they’re nothing close to the way this Lady dresses. This could turn very bad, very fast, if Cynthia isn’t careful.

The broken pieces of her watch dig into her palm. Cynthia slowly uncurls out from behind the tree and steps tremblingly into the cleaning.

“Ah, a face,” the Lady says. She sits back down on the bench, so that she and Cynthia are almost level. The bear takes one look at the Lady, and then one look at Cynthia, and flops huffily to the ground. The birds momentarily scatter and then once again converge on the bear, who looks both displeased and sullen.

The Lady pets his ears. “I know, I know, buddy. We can go and get warm soon, I promise.”

Cynthia tries not to smile, because she has ever right to be terrified, but it’s a close thing. The Lady glances up, and Cynthia’s smile dies slow on her mouth.

“What are you doing here?” the Lady says. “Don’t you know that it’s dangerous out here in these woods?”

Cynthia’s throat closes over. She clutches the broken watch tighter to her chest.

“And you don’t even have gloves on,” the Lady says. She reaches over the side of the bench and pulls out a battered-looking haversack, rummaging through it until she apparently finds what she needs. With dexterity at odds with her aged appearance, the Lady pulls out a pair of fine gloves and throws them at Cynthia.

She fumbles it. Cynthia’s hands are useless, the metal burned cold into her skin. The gloves fall to the ground, and Cynthia scrabbles to pick them up. She is very aware of the tear tracks frozen down her cheeks, of the redness of her nose that she _hopes_ can pass as a reaction to the chill.

“Here,” the Lady says, bending down to pick up the gloves for Cynthia. She appears unbothered by the ice on the ground, taking Cynthia’s hands into her own and gently uncurling them.

She pauses at the watch.

“What’s this?” she says, fingers hovering over the ruined face. “What happened?”

Cynthia gives her a long, miserable look. “I made it,” she finally says, when it appears that the Lady actually wants an answer. “But my brothers broke it.”

The Lady’s smile is a shadow of a thing. “That’s always the way with brothers,” she says. She presses one of her hands over her heart, and then looks back at the watch. “You put care into this.”

“It was the first thing I ever made that worked,” Cynthia says. Her eyes are beginning to burn again, so she stares down at her feet and goes tremblingly onwards: “I’ve made different things. Better things. But this was the _first thing_.”

“First things are important,” the Lady agrees, reaching over to re-curl Cynthia’s chilled hands across the shattered face. Her hands are warm. “Do you want to be a clockmaker, then? A tinkerer?”

“I want to be like Percival de Rolo!” Cynthia says. “I want to make something as beautiful as the clock in the centre of the city. I’m going to make beautiful things, and I’m going to be famous, and I  - I didn’t want – I don’t want my things to be – broken –”

The last words come out in a quiet sob. She scrubs her free hand across her eyes, but the frozen tears pull at her cheeks. The Lady places her fingers underneath Cynthia’s cheeks, catching the tears before they can roll away.

“I think that’s a wonderful dream,” she says. “My husband would say the same thing.”

“Your husband?”

“He’s dead now,” she says. “But he was a clockmaker. He loved doing things with his hands. He loved making beautiful things too.”

Cynthia nods. She’s still trembling, can’t quite seem to get it under control.

“I’d love to talk to you more about it,” she says, sounding almost regretful. “But I’m afraid I never quite managed to catch whatever disease he was infected with. I’ve a bit more of a head for jewels than clocks. My granddaughter, on the other hand, would absolutely love to discuss little things like that.”

“Your granddaughter?”

The Lady smiles. “She appears to have caught the bug,” she says. “Come along, darling, let’s get you back into the city. This is no place to linger without proper heat, and I think Trinket is getting a little fed up with winter. Aren’t you, buddy?”

Trinket –

Cynthia tries to place the name, but she’s too confused to really follow anything.

The bear gets up with lumbering, laborious steps, shaking the birds off him like a wet dog. The bids chitter out laughter as he walks away, flying back into the trees and scattering out through the forest. Cynthia watches them go with a strange kind of detachment.

“You shouldn’t go out into the forest by yourself, you know,” the Lady says. She knots one of her hands into the bear’s fur and beckons Cynthia forward. “It’s dangerous out here alone.”

“You’re alone,” Cynthia says, following at a cautious distance.

The Lady laughs. “I’m never alone out here,” she says. “Besides, I’ve always got Trinket right beside me. You sound like my son. He keeps telling me that I’m too old to come out here. Keeps talking about how _cold_ it is and how _old_ I am – ha! He’s blind as a bat. Can’t shoot straight even with his glasses on. Now, my _granddaughter_ – not the one I’m introducing you to, another one – she’s got the brawn of the family. My son is as weak as my brother. He couldn’t draw a bow if his life depended on it.”

Cynthia nods and tries to keep up. There are a lot of granddaughters being mentioned.

“Now, his _wife_ on the other hand…” the Lady abruptly stops talking, glancing over to Cynthia with self-censure written into her face. “I’m sorry, I’m not usually so chatty. You’ve caught me at a rather odd moment. I’ve gotten used to having conversations about my family that don’t require replies.”

Cynthia shakes her head and tries to smile. She’s still very confused.

“You’ll like my granddaughter,” the Lady says. This does not help with Cynthia’s confusion. “She’s good at listening too.”

The Lady walks, and Cynthia can’t quite help but follow. She’s beautiful in the snow, white and regal as she glides soundlessly over the ground. Cynthia’s eyes can’t quite keep her edges – the Lady blurs into the landscape, with only her giant bear for reference.

Whitestone, when they come back to it, is a shock of noise and activity. Cynthia hesitates on the threshold in a kind of bruised bewilderment. She is still very much upset.

“Come with me,” the Lady says, holding out her hand. “My husband made so many beautiful things. I’d love to show them to you.”

Slowly, as if in a dream, Cynthia reaches out to take the Lady’s hand.

…

…

Wait. Wait, _Trinket_.

Then the Lady –

…

…

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Posting something? What weird alternative universe is this??
> 
> so like, I'm sorry I've been absent, but my anxiety has been crazy out of control recently and I barely managed this. It was supposed to be done on time for the kickstarter, but RIP my schedules. 
> 
> I probs won't be able to reply to your comments (see aforementioned anxiety), but please know that I love and appreciate all of you so so much <3


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